


There's A Light That Never Goes Out

by stellugh



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellugh/pseuds/stellugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 'Murder House' has some new inhabitants: the Langdon family. When Tate, the tortured teen, discovers the house's former deceased and downcast youth, Violet Harmon, he realises that his life will never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unpacking boxes, unravelling secrets.

Tate Langdon gazed longingly out of the car window. 'A new house, a new start,' his mother had promised, but why did it feel as though they were just running away from all of their problems? Sure, he didn't get on well at his last school, in the previous deadbeat neighbourhood in which they resided, yet he knew avoiding his problems didn't _really_  change anything, and only ever did one thing: made him look like a coward. 

The family car came to a steady halt outside an aged, yet gorgeous, manor house. Constance Langdon was speechless at the sight, and, even Tate, was slightly taken back by the beauty of their new home. The family - consisting of Tate, Constance and Adelaide - stood before a large door. Constance brought her weak knuckles, blanketed by a thin and delicate, paper-like layer of snow-white skin, down onto the wooden portal, creating three echoing knocks. A vibrant realtor opened the door, greeting the family with a fake, and extremely toothy, smile.

"Hi, I'm Marcy," she informed the three Langdons happily, extending a bronzed hand out to each one of the family members, issuing for them to shake it, which, politely, they did. She ushered them inside the manor, and showed them every inch of the house: with the small exception of the gloomy basement.

While the chirpy estate agent was discussing the kitchen's newest addition - the "pasta arm" - Tate seized the opportunity to go and snoop around in the intriguing basement. Carefully, he crept down the concrete steps: into the murky, damp abyss. He gently traced his nimble fingers along all of the surfaces that his eyes encountered; the scent of dust, disease and decomposition invaded his nostrils, the evil fragrance acting like a Trojan Horse, attempting to take over Tate's priorly poisoned lungs. 

His legs walked him over to a room hidden near the back of the basement, as if they had a mind of their own; in the separate room, he found shelves upon shelves covered top to bottom with small, glass jars containing what looked like..  _foetus'?_

This house had a lot more life to it than he originally thought. Although, it wasn't  _life_ in the house: it was death. 

"So, what are your thoughts so far?" Marcy questioned Constance optimistically, her smile seemed to be permanently implanted on her face, as though her cheeks had been sliced from the edge of her lips, forcing the omnipresent grin onto her tanned face.

Before the mother of the family could respond, her teenage son appeared in front of them suddenly, startling the three ladies momentarily. "We'll take it." Tate informed Marcy, his infamous boyish smile etched onto his face - it could make even the toughest person's heart melt. 

"I guess that's settled then," Constance exclaimed, happy that her son was seemingly interested in something for once in his life, "where do I sign?" Marcy ushered Constance to the kitchen area, giving her legal forms and documents to sign before they were officially the new occupants of the enticing manor. 

"This house is creepy," Adelaide told her brother, "it gives me the shivers." Tate rubbed his sister's back soothingly and gave her an honest, calm grin.

"It's all gonna be okay, Addie," Tate informed her, "nothing's gonna hurt you, and if anything or anyone tries, I'll protect you, no matter what." Adelaide smiled up at her brother, and wrapped her arms around him, grinning into his chest.

"Thanks, Tate. You're a pretty cool brother."

"I know." Tate replied with a sarcastic wink. 

"Children, welcome to our new home." Constance Langdon practically yelled, whilst emerging from the modernised kitchen, dangling the rusty keys from her index finger. 

'A new house, a new start.' Tate thought to himself, now trying to accept the house as his home. 

* * *

 

Tate travelled through the hallways, on a hunt for the room he wanted to make his. Room after room, and none of them intrigued him enough or met his criteria. Then, he stumbled upon the last room on the right of a long corridor. Curiously, he opened the door and was pleasantly surprised at what was on the other side of it. In the room there was a large bed, with an extremely comfy looking mattress, the room was big, yet had a cosy feel to it, and it just felt  _right._ He claimed it as his own. 

Using all of his strength, he hauled his numerous amount of boxes up the timbered staircase and into his room. He stacked the cardboard cubes into a distant corner of the room, and started to unpack them, wanting to make it feel homely as soon as possible. He threw a blue duvet and matching pillows onto the king-size bed, and arranged them in a neat-ish way; placed his CD player and CD collection onto a table on the edge of his bedroom and plugged the contraption into the wall, blaring The Smiths at maximum volume. "And if a double decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die," Tate sang along to the eighties classic, whilst folding up his clothes, which mainly consisted of plaid shirts and torn, denim jeans. 

"Morrissey fan? I dig that." An unfamiliar voice made Tate almost jump out of his pale skin. 

"Who are you? Why the hell are you in my room?" Tate asked her, his attempts at sounding serious and threatening were hindered by a high-pitched crack in his voice, making him sound as though he were more frightened than anything. 

"Neighbourhood kid, no biggie," it was a girl with dark blonde hair and light brown eyes, that glazed over at the site of the curly-haired blonde stood in front of her, "so I guess your the newest victim here?"

"First off, it is a 'biggie' because you're a stranger, in my house. Secondly, what do you mean by victim?" Tate interrogated her, curious about her previous question. 

"I guess you aren't too threatened by me, seeing as you're carrying on the conversation, but whatever, you'll see what I mean eventually." She stated, whilst eyeing up his CD collection. "Anyway, change of subject, I'm Violet Harmon, and I'm definitely the coolest person you'll meet around here. By that I mean, I'm the only one who listens to The Smiths and Nirvana," she informed him while holding up Tate's beloved  _Nirvana - In Utero_ CD case. 

"Well, you have good taste, I'll give you that," Tate told the compelling girl stood in front of him, "and if you're going to be staying much longer, you may as well give me a hand folding clothes." He smirked at her, flirtatiously. She returned the smirk and walked over to the bed, hopping onto it and folding up one of his check shirts. 

"Tate, who is this?" The teenager sighed as he heard his mother's whining voice coming from his doorway. 

"A girl from around town. She came over to say hi and now she's helping me unpack." Tate replied to his mother's question monotonously.

Violet jumped off the mattress and walked over to Constance, shaking her hand firmly. "Violet Harmon," she informed Tate's mother with a gorgeous smile, "pleasure to meet you."

"Constance Langdon. Well, Violet, I appreciate the gesture, but it's getting rather late and it's Tate's first day of a new school tomorrow and I want him to get a good nights sleep." Ms Langdon hinted at the young girl.

"Oh, don't worry I totally understand. I'm gone," she bounded through the door "bye Tate, it was nice meeting you." She waved at blonde boy, and then, she was gone. 

Constance's gaze followed the girl until she was out of eyesight. "You should get some rest, sweetie. It's a big day tomorrow. Goodnight." Her manicured finger flicked Tate's light-switch off, leaving him in abrupt and stable blackness. He undressed until he was just in his boxers, unplugged his CD player, replacing the sound with his earphones and clambered into his sheets, aiming to get a good night's rest.

Little did he know that she was watching. She always would be. She was stuck in a constant trap, where escape wasn't even a plausible option. Something about the new inhabitant captivated her and she wanted to find out more about him: to get the know him. She settled on a large rug that was placed proportionally in the middle of the room, playing cards, gazing up at him every so often. He was going to make this place interesting, and she knew it. 


	2. First Day In Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter took so long! This isn't the best I've ever written, but I promise it'll get better. Also, minor trigger warning, there are mentions of self harm in this chapter. Anyway, enjoy!

Carelessly, Tate slung his backpack over his broad shoulder, picking up a piece of buttered toast and tearing it apart with his teeth, devouring it until it was just a mere few crumbs falling onto the tiled floor. "Have a good first day, honey!" Constance exclaimed to her son, puckering her lips to kiss him on the cheek. Tate retreated, his lips curling into a disgusted scowl. 

"Unlikely," he stated, and walked out of the door. Tate had figured out the way to his new school: Westfield High. He had used Google Maps to figure out the route and memorise it thoroughly, as to avoid having Constance drop him off. He couldn't simply think of anything worse, he already had to live with her. 

The journey wasn't too long, just a few rights and lefts. Tate gazed around, taking in all of the alien sights around him; if he was going to call this city home, then he needed to get to know it first. He attempted to keep focussed on the trek to school, but something in his mind consistently wondered back to the girl he'd met the previous night: Violet. How did she get into my house unnoticed? What did she mean by 'victim'? So many questions had been left unanswered. 'I mean, she was pretty hot though,' Tate's brain altered into that of a regular teenage boy, as he thought about how gorgeous she was. 

Abruptly, his thoughts were interrupted by the harsh squeaking of brakes. Startled, Tate returned to reality and saw a silver car had stopped, no more than 2 inches away from him; he had almost been hit by a car. Tate relaxed his shoulders and let out a sigh of relief, thankful that he hadn't become road kill. "Hey, jackass, get out of the damn road!" A boy around his age, with dark brown hair and a chiselled jaw stuck his head out of the car window.

Slowly, Tate walked out of the road and turned back to face the car, another boy had his head poking out of the passenger side window. "Watch where you're going next time, asshole!" The boy shouted and threw a breakfast burrito at Tate with all of his force. The contents of the burrito splattered all over Tate's clothes and face, as well as sticking in his blonde curls, the remnants landing in a messy pile on Tate's converse.

A strange feeling arose in his stomach. It was like he had butterflies, but the harmless fluttering creatures were replaced instead with tiny daggers, jabbing the contents of his stomach, making him feel a bizarre cocktail of emotions. Before he could figure out what the sensation was, he found himself lobbing a large rock at the silver car that had almost ran him over a few minutes prior, and was just driving away from the scene. The rock crashed against the back window, a crack appeared on the glass and Tate fled as fast as he could to school, hoping his first day wouldn't get any worse.

* * *

Breathlessly, Tate found himself stood outside the large building that was Westfield High. He balanced his weight on a nearby tree, sharply taking in as much oxygen as he possibly could. Automatically, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his denim jeans, and placed one of the toxic sticks between his lips, he raised a lighter to the end of the cigarette and set it alight, allowing the chemicals to invade his throat and move down to his lungs. He parted his lips, gracefully letting white smoke escape his mouth, floating up and vanishing in the air.

He checked the time on his phone: 8:07am. There was still 23 minutes until school began; he must have got there early, considering he ran for the most part. Tate took several more drags of the cigarette, before letting it free-fall to the ground, and then crushed it using his foot. 

8:12am.

Tentatively, Tate walked up to the school doors, pushing them open with ease. He approached the reception, where a small, red-headed lady looked up at him with a phony smile.

"Err, I'm new here today..." Tate stuttered with uncertainty. 

"What's your name, honey?" The lady questioned the nervous, blonde boy stood before her.

"Uhm, Tate Langdon." He informed her.

The lady tapped a few keys on her keyboard, before looking up at Tate. "Yup, that seems to be okay," she handed him a three pieces of paper: one with a map on it, another had Tate's schedule printed onto it, the final one had a  few numbers on it, "here's your schedule, a map of the school grounds and your locker location and combination. Welcome to Westfield High, Tate, classes begin in 10 minutes."

"Thank you." Tate gave the receptionist a smile so small, he wasn't even sure that she had seen it, and stepped away from the reception desk. 

He glanced at his schedule. Firstly, he had English Literature in Room 12. Taking out his map, he found Room 12, it was upstairs and on the left, right next to his locker. Steadily, Tate made his way to the staircase, and trekked up it with little enthusiasm. He approached a small grey door and turned the dial to enter the required code, the door popped open and he pulled it a little wider, staring into emptiness. 'A few band stickers ought to brighten it up a bit' Tate thought to himself, slightly smiling at his own idea. 

He was knocked out of his continuous imagining by the shrill noise of the bell sounding, making him wince slightly, as he drifted back into reality. Effortlessly, he walked into the almost empty Room 12 and took the first available seat: not right at the front, so he didn't seem too eager, but not at the back, to avoid drawing attention to himself with the teacher. He selected a desk one row from the back and two from the left. The perfect seat to do work, as well as slack off when he felt like it. 

Tate unzipped his backpack, and placed an A4 notebook and pen on the desk, ready to scribble down some notes. "Hey, jerk off, you're in my seat." A deep voice called over to the curly-haired blonde. 

Tate looked up in awe, as he saw a group of "jocks" strut into the room like they owned it, like a pride of lions protecting their territory. It was the same guys who had almost run him over earlier that morning. 

"Oh, look who it is everybody! The fucker that thinks it's funny to hurtle rocks at my brand new Mercedes!" Tate gulped, the lump in his throat made him feel as though he was choking. 

"Brad, will you calm down and take a seat please," the English Lit teacher pleaded the overbearing beast, who was now stood a mere few inches from Tate's face. 

"Sure thing, Miss Regan," Brad flashed her a sarcastic smile over his broad shoulder, before turning back to face Tate, gripping onto the collar of his jacket with his strong hands. "Listen, newbie, if you cause me any more hassle, I will make your life at Westfield High very, very miserable." 

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Tate snarled at him. The anger was taking over him again and, an approximate 8 seconds later, he was looking down at Brad with a waterfall of red pouring from his nose. Tate gasped and hesitated slightly, before he sprinted out of the classroom, and out of the school. 

* * *

15 minutes later, and Tate Langdon was stood outside his new home. Constance's car wasn't there, so he took the risk of unlocking the door and entering the belittling mansion. When he stepped into the house, he felt presence, but it was eerily silent. Constance couldn't have been there, and Adelaide would be with her, so surely the house was empty. Shrugging off his paranoia, Tate ran up the stairs and to his room, shutting the wooden door behind him. Tired, he flopped onto his large bed, his form sinking into the comfortable mattress. He picked up his iPod and put his earphones in. He played Nirvana on shuffle, turning the volume up to the maximum. _Aneurysm._ The perfect song, the long intro perfectly summing up his rapid emotions. He started to fully immerse himself in the song, tapping his leg in unison with the drumming, patting his feet on the floor in attempt to keep a rhythm. 

 _What was that?_ He was sure he'd heard something. Tate pulled out his left earphone and opened his heavy eyelids. Nothing. Probably just a figment of his wondering imagination again.

 _Bang. Bang._ No, this time he'd definitely heard something. He shot up from lying on the bed, yanking out his earphones, and screamed at the figure standing in the centre of his room. 

"Holy shit! You've gotta stop appearing in my fucking room!" Tate collapsed down onto the bed, his hands on his heart, feeling the rapid beats pulsating against his skin.

"Sorry, dude. I did knock." It was Violet, the girl who'd made a surprise appearance in his room the night before. 

"Why are you in my house anyway?" Tate interrogated the mysterious girl before him.

"I saw you running down the street, and wondered why you weren't at school and if you were okay. I tried knocking, but the door was unlocked, so I came in. Sorry, that's kinda wrong of me, but I wanted to check on you. I didn't mean to scare you," she told him.

"Come, sit down," Tate issued for her to sit on his bed by jolting his head towards the mattress, "so tell me, why aren't you at school?" 

"Why aren't you?" She replied.

"I asked you first." He told her, sternly.

"Fine, well, long story short, my dad had an affair with one of his students and now they've run off together, my mom's a total wreck, when she's not crying, she's sleeping or drowning her sorrows with wine, much too busy to care about my needs. I just kinda roam around." She laughed nervously.

"That's crap, I'm sorry. My turn, I guess, I got into a fight at school, and ran home." He informed her.

"That's it? I was expecting something much more dramatic." She complained jokingly, with a small smirk on her pink lips.

"Dramatic? Girl, I knocked a guy out in 5 seconds flat." Tate joked, flexing his muscles.

"Sorry, I'm not into jocks." Violet scowled at him, and poked his cheek. Tate looked at her arm; several faint, horizontal lines were embedded in her skin. He gripped her wrist lightly, taking her by surprise, and stared at the scars. She quickly snapped her arm out his grasp, and pulled her cardigan sleeves down to cover her horrible past.

"I'm sorry if I offended you, it's just I've never known someone like me," he tugged at his jacket sleeve, pulling it up slightly, revealing numerous scars that were pointing in all different directions; he placed a finger on the scar at the top of his wrist, "when my dad ran away," he confessed solemnly.

Violet looked at him earnestly, tears threatening to cascade down her pale cheeks. She removed her cardigan, and held both of her wrists out in front of him. Her skin was disguised with countless amounts of healed cuts, but the pain would never really leave. "Dad, mom, school, depression, life." She said each word after pointing to one of her infinite amount of scars. 

Tate took her arm in his hands once more and placed a gentle kiss onto her wrist. It was so bizarre, he'd only just met this girl, who kept appearing in his room, and now they were sharing secrets and he was kissing her scars. Upon realising what he'd done, he suddenly changed the subject, "wanna listen to some Nirvana?" He asked her, remembering that he hadn't paused the music playing on his iPod.

"You tell me." She stated, with a grin. 

"Of course you do." He replied, raising his eyebrows knowingly. He unplugged the earphones and instead hooked the iPod up to his stereo: the sweet sound of Kurt Cobain's voice taking over the room. 

Violet got up and sat on the rug in the centre of the room. "What are you doing?" Tate questioned her.

She smiled up at him. "Playing cards, wanna join me?"


	3. Don't Fuck With Dead Girls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- trigger warnings -  
> mentions of self harm in this chapter.  
> also there is strong language.
> 
> hope you enjoy.

Tate Langdon stared at himself in the mirror. He wanted to feel something: anything. All he felt was emptiness. How he felt about himself was far past hatred now. It was complete numbness. What was there to live for? He had no friends, no future,  no hope. Rage overtook his body, as his fist crashed into the mirror before him, sending the glass flying around the bathroom in jagged, little pieces.

Swiftly, he picked up one of the pieces of glass and, routinely, sliced his wrist with it.

"If you're trying to kill yourself, do it vertically. That way they can't stitch it up." A familiar voice said to him in an agitated tone.

Tate flung round to see Violet stood in the doorway, her fists clenched, pure anger on her pale face. "I thought we were past this, Tate," she yelled at the blonde boy, "I thought we agreed no more cutting. What happened to 'we have each other now Violet?' Was that all bullshit, huh?" She was practically screaming now, as red hot tears scorned her cheeks. Violet turned and ran out of the room; Tate tried to follow but she had vanished into thin air. She was gone.

"Shit." He cursed at himself, staggering into his bedroom and wrapping an old t-shirt around his wounded wrist. Placing himself onto his bed, he thought back to what Violet had reminded him of. The pact they had make. The pact he had broken.

_1 Month Ago:_

_Tate was waiting for Violet to invade his room. He was used to it now; he was used to her just turning up out of nowhere. Before, it frightened him a little but, now, he actually kind of enjoyed her presence, even if she did often show up uninvited.  
_

_As if on cue, Violet sauntered into the room and flopped down onto Tate's bed._

_"Not you again." Tate moaned sarcastically, with a wink._

_"Psh, whatever. I know you love me." Violet informed him and got up from the bed._

_Tate's smile turned into a frown as he eyed up the fresh scar on Violet's wrist. "Violet, please stop."_

_"What are you talking about?" She asked, furrowing her eyebrows._

_"Stop mutilating yourself. You're better than that, please." He slowly walked up to her and took her arms in his hands, tenderly kissing each wrist._

_Violet wriggled her arms out of his clutches. "Don't be such a hypocrite, Tate. You do it too." She reminded him, holding her arms tightly to her chest._

_"Not anymore I don't," he exclaimed contemptuously. He strutted over to his dresser, taking out a small box of razors and putting them into a trash can, "we can do this together, Violet. We need to show everybody that we're better than this; let's show them that we don't need to harm ourselves to feel okay."_

_Tate placed his hands onto Violet's cheeks and gazed deeply into her eyes. "Promise me, Violet. Promise me you won't hurt yourself anymore and neither will I."_

_"I promise." She stated solemnly, a tear rolling down her cheek as Tate kissed her forehead and held her tightly in his arms._

* * *

 

Violet found herself sitting in the attic, her cheeks still damp from her prior encounter with Tate. She was playing solitaire, she used it as a calming method; it was a way to shift her focus away from the hectic thoughts in her damaged mind.

However, this time, her thoughts just wouldn't stop. She slammed the cards down in frustration. "He has the arrogance to break a promise? The audacity to make me look stupid? Well, he's fucked over the wrong dead girl." She needed a way to get back at him, to carry out a scheme of revenge. She didn't want to kill him or ruin the friendship they'd made, she just wanted to _scare_ him a little, and she had the perfect plan.

She closed her eyes and focused, when she opened her eyes she was in the basement. "Okay everybody, I need you guys to help me out." Slowly, several figures started to emerge from the shadows. They were all victims of the house, just as Violet was.

"What do you need, Vi?" A man with dark hair asked.

"Uh, hey dad. I need a few of you to aid me in scaring the teenage boy that lives here. I don't want anyone hurting him, just giving him a fright as a means of revenge." Violet informed the group of ghosts before her.

"Dad, I need you to act as a burglar who's trying to hurt me. I'll call for Tate to come and help and you get him down to the basement," Violet looked around at the other ghosts, "when he's down here, I need all of you guys to smash and bang stuff to freak him out," she then shifted her attention to Charles Montgomery, the original owner of the house, "then I'll need you to freak him out to the point where he faints. I'll take it from there. Plan starts in 10 minutes."

Violet ran up the basement stairs, eager for her plan to begin.

* * *

Tate was lying on his bed, still playing the scenario from earlier over and over in his mind. He was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of crashing and someone... screaming?

"TATE! TATE HELP ME!" A desperate voice from downstairs screamed. Tate's heart sank momentarily when he realised it was Violet.

He shot up and sprinted down the stairs where he found Violet sprawled out on the floor, blood pouring from a stab wound in her chest. He pulled her into his arms. "Oh my god. No, Violet. What happened?" His eyes burned, as he questioned her.

"There's a man. He's in the house." She whispered before shutting her eyes. Tate stared down at her limp body, tears cascading down his face. A loud bang came from behind him. He spun round to see a tall man in a hoodie, dwindling a knife in his hands.

Tate got up from on the floor. The familiar rage overtook his being and he lunged at the man, who ran into the basement. Tate got into the basement and lost sight of the man. "Where are you, you fucker? You killed an innocent girl: a girl I love. I'll fucking kill you!" Tate stormed around the damp room, looking for the man but he was gone. After what felt like a lifetime of searching, Tate fell to the floor, his body completely drained of energy.

A bang came from the farthest corner of the room. Cautiously, Tate got up to find the source of the noise. By the time he was there, a smashing came from  the opposite side of the basement. Then, similiar bangings and smashings and crashings came from every inch of the basement, producing an awful cacophony of fear. Tate collapsed to the cold floor, clenching his ears, desperate for it all to stop.

Suddenly, a man in a white lab coat emerged from under the basement stairs, weilding a knife and a syringe. He walked slowly up to Tate, who crawled into a corner. There was no chance of escape. Tate let out a scream as the man stuck the syringe into Tate's neck.

Then everything went black.

 


	4. Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, but it's a pretty meaty chapter & as always, i hope you enjoy it.

Tate Langdon shot up in his bed, beads of sweat escaping from every pore and running down his face. Frantically, he looked around the room, observing his surroundings to make sure that he was still alive. His heavy panting became normal breaths and his pulse returned to a steady pace.

"Was that a dream?" He asked himself aloud. He assumed it probably was. It was insane for him to think that there was ghosts or _something_ in his basement. It was insane for him to think that Violet had been killed.

Violet.

"Oh god," Tate exclaimed, "What if she's? No. She can't be... dead."

He ran down the massive staircase, to see if her body was still lifeless on the floor where he last saw her. He reached the spot where she had been. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that she wasn't there, and that there was no evidence of her ever being there.

"That dream," he began, "it was so... realistic." Suddenly, he had the urge to see Violet. What if anything ever happened to her? How would he cope? Sure, they hadn't known each other for very long, but he _loved_ that girl. He cared for her more than he had ever cared for anybody. She made him feel comfortable: she made him feel wanted.

"Hello, dear." Tate's mother, Constance, said, emerging from the kitchen with a fake grin on her face.

"Something you want, mother?" Tate asked her.

"Would you like to explain to me, Tate, why I have had your school phone me to inform me that you haven't attended school in over two weeks?" Constance questioned her teenage son angrily.

"That place is hell, mother. All the kids there are vile human beings, they terrorise me everyday and I've lost the ability to cope with it," he admitted.

"You weak, weak boy," Constance began, "you let a few pathetic, little kids run all over you and drive you to the point where you don't even go to school anymore? You've let them win, Tate. You've let them believe that they've beat you, and you can't let them beat you, my boy."

"I don't care. Let them think whatever they want to. I'm not going back there," Tate informed his mother moodily.

"Yes you are. You are a member of the Langdon family and you are not _allowed_ to give up," the woman told her son imperatively.

"I didn't ask to be a part of this fucking family, Constance," Tate snarled.

Constance slapped the teenager across the face swiftly, the sound of the slap echoed through the house like lightning and Tate's hand flew to his cheek. "You're a part of this family, whether you like it or not. Do you want to be weak like your bastard of a father? Is that what you want, Tate?"

He shook his head automatically, thinking about his weakling of a father who ran away from them when he was a young boy.

"You better go in tomorrow," Constance warned the boy, pointing a cold finger at him and walking out of the door.

* * *

 Tate sat on his mattress, he had his laptop placed on his lap, the screen the only source of light in his room, which was engulfed with an unsettling darkness. He was worried about Violet, he hadn't seen her since their argument, then the dream...

He wanted to contact her, but he didn't have a phone number for her, so he decided to Facebook her name to see if she had a profile. "Violet Harmon," he mumbled aloud whilst typing her name into the search bar. There were a few Violet Harmon's, but none were who he was looking for.

"Okay, so she doesn't have Facebook," he said with slight disbelief. Most teenagers these days had a Facebook page but, thinking about it, Violet isn't like most teenagers. Tate decided to continue his search and typed in 'Violet Harmon, Los Angeles' onto Google, to see if she had any other social media pages.

He got a few hits. He clicked on the first link, which really intrigued him. 'Westfield High Shooting: 20 Years On.' He scrolled down the page, reading the information. "A shooting at Westfield High? Woah." 

Tate felt uneasy reading the article about a massacre at his school, it didn't feel right to carry out his education at a place where kids his own age had been killed. Nevertheless, he continued scrolling and reading. His jaw dropped as he saw her photo. "W-what?" He uttered aloud, with complete astonishment.

It was a picture of Violet.

'Violet Harmon was 17 years old when she was shot and killed in the library of Westfield High School.'

"I just- I don't understand!" Tate murmured, standing up from his bed and switching on his bedside lamp, dissolving the blackness around him. He began pacing up and down the room. "That was 20 years ago. How could she have died 20 years ago? How was she in my room? I've seen her. I've touched her, god-dammit!"

Eventually, once he got exhausted from all of the pacing, he collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep.

* * *

"GET UP!" A screeching voice invaded Tate's slumber and brought him back to reality. Sleepily, Tate rubbed his eyes and saw his mother stood by his bed. "Tate Langdon, if you aren't out of bed and ready for school in 10 minutes, so help me God, I will throw all your crappy CDs in the trash," she warned her son.

"Fine, fine. Just get out of my room," Tate replied and Constance exited, slamming the door behind her.

Tate threw on a pair of denim jeans, an oversized jumper and a pair of black converse. He then continued to wash his face and brush his teeth, before heading downstairs. "Just in time," Constance said, "I'm driving you to school today, to ensure that you go."

Tate sighed, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, "I know my way, mother."

"Are you sure, Tate? Because if you knew your way to school, then maybe you would go more often. Now get in the car," she ordered her son.

Reluctantly, Tate obeyed and sat in the passenger seat of his mother's car, whilst Adelaide sat in the back. The drive to school was mainly silent, as opposed to the fuzzy radio station that was playing in the car. When they reached the school, Tate got out of the car, slamming the door behind him, without as much as a glance towards his family, and headed towards the entrance.

The school day was long. Tate didn't pay much attention, he was too distracted about what he'd found out the night before. When lunch break came, he went to the library. Slowly, he walked around the endless amounts of shelves, stacked full to the brim with books. He gently traced his finger across one of the shelves, creating a clean line where he had removed dust; he rubbed his index finger and thumb together, removing the dust from his fingertip. He was wiping his finger on his shirt when, all of a sudden, something caught his eye. He noticed a large collection of photos. It was a shrine. A shrine to the victims of the Westfield High shooting, which took place in that very library.

He noticed Violet's picture and a wave of nausea washed over him. It looked exactly like her, down to the very last detail. If Violet Harmon was dead, who had he been seeing in his house? The girl he knew  _had_ to be real: he'd touched her, he'd felt her. There was no way she was just an illusion. The thoughts were a ticking time-bomb in his head, he swiftly exited the library and retreated home. 

* * *

 

Luckily, Constance wasn't home when Tate entered, quickly trekking up the stairs to his room. He dropped his backpack at the foot of his bed, the banging sound of it hitting the floor echoing around the room. Tate walked over to his stereo, flicking through various CDs, trying to find an album that could convey the mood he was in.

Before he could choose a suitable album to listen to, a voice came from the doorway. "Hey, Tate," the soft voice cooed.

Tate took a deep breath in, preparing himself to look up at the dead girl in front of him. 

 


End file.
